Ice Blue
by Ardin
Summary: Preshow, kinda KIBBS. 'They’re ice blue and seem to scream the ready intelligence and sharp observation skills of the man behind them.'


**Ice Blue** By Ardin

Disclaimer: The characters of NCIS belong to Donald P. Bellisario, et al. and not to me.

**A/N: **I literally wrote this idea out in the space of about two hours without stop despite the fact that it is the middle of the night all because one sentence came to my mind and I just couldn't let it go. This is the second story I'm posting in a less than twenty-four hour period and that may just be a record for me.

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The guy who's hitting on her, leaning heavy on the bar, obviously on his third drink at the least, is cute. Not sexy, too boyish, not enough rough around the edges to be sexy in her book, but definitely cute. And that's great except that he's well aware of the fact and is trying to milk it for all it's worth. It must be pretty obvious to everyone else except him that she isn't actually interested because the guy who just sat down on her other side doesn't even attempt to hide his silent smirk as yet another worthless pick-up line comes out.

She's tried to blow him off twice and she can tell he's getting discouraged, but apparently not enough to stop trying all together. So far he's stuck to gratuitous compliments, and she wonders when he'll switch tacks and start trying to impress her with his job, car, school, whatever and the thought has barely crossed her mind when he makes the switch.

"I'm in the Army by the way. Just got back from a deployment in South America." His voice is arrogant, full of pride and she suspects that even in his drunk state he had to have seen her rather blatant eye roll. She is still, though only barely, unwillingly to give him a rude blow off and she gives him a tight lipped smile as she responds resignedly.

"Army, huh?" Her words are heavy and are followed by a large sip of the vodka in front of her. He starts to open his mouth to reply, and she has just decided that it's time to excuse herself to the restroom and just not come back, when the man on her other side jumps into the conversation before he can make more boasts or she can make excuses.

"You're in the Army, huh? Well you know what they say about guys in the Army?" He pauses dramatically, giving her time to twist around to see him. She's startled by his appearance: dark blue jeans, untucked white dress shirt, untidy brown hair (that even in the dim lighting she can tell is starting to silver), but mostly his eyes. They're ice blue and seem to scream the ready intelligence and sharp observation skills of the man behind them. But more than that, they startle her because they are not directed at her drunken suitor, whom she suddenly suspects is categorized under the heading 'target' rather than 'conversation' in the new arrival's mind, but rather at her.

He holds her gaze for a moment before lifting it to the stunned, and speechless, soldier behind her, as he continues his earlier comment. "They're in the Army because they **A**ren't **R**eady for the **M**arines **Y**et." His tone is light, she'd say airy if it weren't for the hard, competitive stare that accompanies the words.

The younger man takes the statement as a challenge for her attentions, and with a shrug wanders off, apparently uninterested in wasting his energies on someone who has already proven her lack of interest. As she watches him leave she is torn between relief that he's gone and outrage that this stranger didn't think she could handle him on her own. The outrage sits more comfortably since she hates playing the needy damsel in distress, and she turns back to the blue-eyed intruder, ready to ream him, but his words stop her.

"I needed that." It's not so much the words that bring her tirade up short as the barely there smile that accompanies them and the phrase that is immediately shot at the bartender, who has finally chosen to make an appearance, "A double of the strongest thing you've got."

Despite some residual anger at his earlier behavior, she has to admit that it was funny and she supposes that she can't blame him for wanting some entertainment after what seems to have been a very bad day.

She's not really sure where the urge comes from, but all of a sudden she wants very much to cheer up the man next to her. The girlfriends she came with have all disappeared, having long ago found men suitable to dance the night away with and than drop before anything actually happens. She never has found that to be a particularly fun way to spend a night, the guilt at leading them on overriding any enjoyment and she has a feeling that the simple company of the man beside her will be infinitely more suitable. She doesn't have any thoughts of sleeping with him, or asking for his number and she gets the strange feeling that she won't even have to attempt to explain her motivations to him.

His drink has arrived, but he doesn't toss it back in one go as she would have expected, instead taking a lingering sip, enjoying the taste of whatever potent alcohol is in the glass tumbler.

She takes a moment to really examine the man sitting beside her. He is not cute, face too lined with age and experiences to be cute, but he is definitely sexy. Even in, what is obviously, the dregs of a bad day he sits upright, shoulders straight, not hunched over his glass. He seems to know her eyes are on him, but doesn't seem particularly uneasy or embarrassed by the fact.

She suspects that cheering him up, even a little bit, is not going to be easy, but she has always loved a challenge.

Turning on her stool to face him more fully she gives a smile, not a saccharine sweet smile or large toothy grin, neither of which she thinks he would appreciate in his current mood, but just a smile, pleasant and, maybe, a little affectionate. He gives her a slight grin back, one corner of his lips just barely curling upward, and the small nod that accompanies it suggests that her earlier belief that she wouldn't have to explain her motivation to him was entirely accurate.

Despite a distaste for most of the hard stuff, she orders a single of what he's drinking and they sit for several minutes in a comfortable and easy silence. Both appear to be perfectly happy spending the rest of the night like that until a new song comes over the speakers. She knows it's by the Rolling Stones, but she doesn't know the title and hasn't heard it enough times to know any of the words, but the beat seems appropriate and appropriate seems to be enough tonight.

Setting her glass down, she waits for him to follow suit, intuitively knowing that he will somehow understand her intentions and go along with them. She isn't disappointed and his glass has barely hit the wood surface of the bar before his hand is firmly in hers, being dragged, only slightly reluctantly, onto the dance floor.

He doesn't so much dance as sway in time to the beat, but that's fine with her and not really less than she expected. The slight crook of his mouth, that she supposes she'll be charitable about and call a smile, has become a permanent feature on his face and she takes it as a slight improvement on his earlier mood. It might only be the alcohol, but she suspects that it would take more than the amount he imbibed and is therefore perfectly willing to take the credit.

It's several verses into the third song since they started 'dancing' before she tries to talk to him. The slight smile is still in place and he's finally started to move a little more to the music, a single hand taking up residence on her hip at a point she can't recall.

She doesn't ask him his name, or his job, or why he's so unhappy on this particular Friday night. She's not actually sure she cares about any of those things; she's talking because something inside tells her it will help his mood more and she is still determined to cheer him up. So her questions come off the wall and out of left field.

"What was the last movie you saw?" While the answers really don't matter she decides to stick with topics that would be difficult to consider controversial, unwilling to ruin the start she's made by jumping into politics or religion. Plus, having a conversation about something real seems too binding, too permanent for the two of them and the night they're having.

She almost expects him not to answer; expects him to let her have a conversation all on her own, never actually participating and she's mildly relieved when his rich tones reply, "Maltese Falcon was on TV the other night."

She had been talking about at a movie theater and the vague challenge in his eyes suggests that he's well aware of the fact, but also tells her that it's the best answer she's going to get. She's not really surprised. She hadn't expected him to be a big movie-goer, or socializer at all for that matter, and she moves on without a second thought, "Chocolate or vanilla ice cream?"

They dance for at least an hour in the same pattern, her questions unimportant and following no particular vane or rhythm, his answers short and only occasionally surprising to her. Sometimes several minutes go by between questions and sometimes they come rapid fire, one after another like the rounds from a machine gun.

At some point the other half of his mouth joined the first to create more of a smile, less of a smirk. She takes it as one more point in her attempts and doesn't worry about the when of exactly what was said, if it was something specific (which she doubts), to create the change and keeps up on her questions.

"Summer or winter?" In the northern part of the country where they currently are this question usually has one of two pat answers. Either people dislike the hassles of snow and are placed firmly in the summer category or they believe that you can only take off so many clothes but can infinitely layer and are placed equally firmly on the winter team. By now, after almost two hours of knowing him, she knows better than to expect a pat answer from the man she dances with.

"That depends. Summer in the Middle East sucks, but winter in the Arctic Circle is equally horrible, so that all depends on where you are I guess."

His answer brings a large smile to her features, less because it was unusual and more because it's the first time that he has supplied more information than was asked for. She's well aware that he could have stopped with 'that depends' and she wouldn't have pushed further. Tally up one more for her side. Just as she has all evening she suspects that he knows she's keeping track of her 'score' and wonders again why his seemingly accurate intuition of her doesn't bug her more.

It's quite a while later before she adds another point to her list, but when it comes she considers it her final victory.

"Do you have a tattoo?" If she admits the truth, this particular question has just been begging to be asked since the beginning. Normally she can tell with people whether or not they're the type to have ink, but with him she isn't sure, and it's one more detail she wants to know.

"Yes." She's refrained from asking follow up questions up until this point, but the hearty chuckle that he offered after the question but before his answer, suggests that he probably won't mind a little bit of prying.

"What is it?" There's a chance that it is actually they, but she sincerely doubts it and he doesn't even attempt to point out her assumption as he responds.

"Bird, ball and chain." She can tell that he expects her to be confused by this response, that it will force her to ask further questions and the surprise and widening smile as she defies those expectations is the game point she has been waiting for.

"Marine, huh? That explains a lot." She is refering to his earlier statement at the bar and his only answer is a slight shrug and his mouth widening to what she can only describe as a shit-eating grin.

"Former actually, but the Corps pride is still there."

She grins in response and moves slightly closer to him as they dance. She has done it. She now considers him to be well and truly cheered up. She still doesn't know why he was down, or whether he had come to the bar for a single glass or to get completely blitzed, and she still doesn't care.

Her success comes not a moment too soon as the music's volume lowers and the barman announced that they're closing. She's sure that he must have called for last orders some time ago, but can't remember him doing so and doesn't worry to much about it as they finish dancing to the last song, before collecting jackets from the rack by the door.

For reasons she can't comprehend, he waits as she makes a pit stop at the ladies room, and the delay makes them the last ones out into the parking lot. The fact that there are only two cars left makes it clear that they are going in opposite directions and she is about to move away from him without another word, when his voice stops her planned motion.

"Thank you." His words are sincere and smile genuine as she looks up into his face. His blue eyes startle her again, as they had that first time, and she's not sure how or why but she can read the unspoken request in them. Giving the same gentle smile she had started their evening with, she answers his only question of the night.

"Kate."

"Jethro."

When they meet years later on Air Force One, she will still remember his answers to all of her questions, he'll still seem to need cheering up (though never as drastically as that night), some of his behavior will still have her on the verge between relief and outrage, and his ice-blue eyes will still startle her.

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**A/N:** Not much in the way of comment down here except to say that I have absolutely nothing against the Army, it just worked in the story.


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